


A Weekend in the Country

by Orichalcum



Category: Three Musketeers - Dumas
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orichalcum/pseuds/Orichalcum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The four Muskeeters set out for a peaceful summer wedding in the country. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Weekend in the Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



A Weekend in the Country

 

 

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the young man as he strode into the tavern, approaching the corner benches and wide oak table around which his friends were ensconced. “It is indeed most particularly unpleasant outside today.” As he dropped onto a bench and called out to the serving girl for a glass of chilled wine, the gentleman casually swept his hat off with his arm. The cap’s feather drooped listlessly in the heat, and beneath the hat, the young man’s brown curls were matted to his forehead with sweat.

The other three at the table had removed their heavy musketeer tabards and piled them on a nearby barstool. The largest of the guards – for by their muscled arms, the swords at their waists, and their watchful eyes on the tavern entrance the men were most surely redoubtable warriors – had gone so far as to unlace his cambric shirt and untuck it from his breeches. His two comrades were an older gentleman, who remained immaculately dressed, seeming almost immune to the heat, and a younger man whose shirt and hairstyle were suited to the latest fashion.

            The large man heartily embraced the newcomer and announced, “Do not fear, good D’Artagnan, for this very day I have discovered a solution to this pestiliential heat.”

            “What, a solution?” asked D’Artagnan. “Can you stop the sun from shining or the sewers of Paris from producing fewer foul odors, Porthos? Even the Cardinal has not devised a solution to the vexing quandary of Paris in August.”

            “The key, my friend, is not to be in Paris in August,” Porthos answered triumphantly.

            “Well, certainly, that would be ideal,” Athos replied, “but we are sadly without recourse to other options.”

            “But that, my dearest Athos, is where you err in this case! I have just this morning received a most elegant missive summoning me to the wedding of my niece, Jeanne-Marie, at my brother-in-law’s chateau near Blois, this forthcoming Saturday,” Porthos explained happily.

            “Well, and indeed, most excellent Porthos, this is a fortunate letter for you,” replied the fourth man, “and you should thank your patron saint for his blessings upon your sweat-covered brow, but I do not see how this saves D’Artagnan from the heat or smells, much less the rest of our group.”

            “Do you not see, good Aramis? We shall all go to this wedding – we shall make of it a weekend in the country – and thus escape Paris for a few days of peaceful rural revels, “ answered Porthos.

            “But, my dear friend,” interrupted Athos, “The rest of us have not been asked to attend the wedding of your niece.”

            “Oh, never mind such petty details,” Porthos replied, waving his hands in large, extravagant gestures. “I am certain my brother-in-law, the Comte de R_____, has a multitude of rooms for such excellent Musketeers as you, my friends, and indeed, it is hard to think that our presence will not make the wedding far the merrier.”

With such incontrovertible logic, the stout Musketeer soon persuaded his comrades, and they agreed to set off the next morning for Blois. The four men informed their loyal servants, who were even more delighted than their masters at the prospect of quitting the environs of Paris in the sweltering summer heat, and they quickly began packing valises full of garb suitable for festive celebration.

 In the course of their travels, they encountered and defeated two gangs of daring highwaymen, one felonious tavernkeeper, and discovered the Cardinal’s courier absconding with crucial documents intended to reaffirm ties between Paris and Lisbon. But these are tales for another time; we are concerned merely with the events at the Comte de R_’s chateau.

***

The four Musketeers galloped down the long processional road, through the forests stocked with deer and boars for the fall hunting season, up to the small but elegant chateau that was to house the weekend’s wedding. Porthos’ sister, the Comtesse, paced slowly down the steps to greet them, followed by her husband, who scowled slightly as he saw the size of his brother-in-law’s entourage. At the top of the stairs, D’Artagnan glimpsed a slender blonde figure in the palest blue, holding back a number of younger children in short breeches and skirts.

“Isaac!” the Comtesse, a statuesque woman with elegantly coiffured hair and a generous bosom, exclaimed, moving forward to kiss Porthos on the cheek as he swung heavily down from his horse. “We did not think you would be able to attend, given your duties at Court!” D’Artagnan was not certain from the lady’s polite tones whether she was delighted or horrified to see her brother; out of the corner of his eye he caught Athos’ raised eyebrow. “And who are these noble gentlemen?”

“Sarah, my dear sister, how could I miss the wedding of your darling little Jeanne-Louise? The King is hunting at Chambord – closer to here than Paris, in truth, though he requires us not at the moment. These are my truest friends, Athos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, without whom I never travel. When I had spoken of your most generous hospitality and beautiful chateau, they declared that they could not live another day until they had seen it for themselves and reported news of its wonders back to the Court,” Porthos declaimed, smacking his sister on both cheeks. “Where is the sweet little bride?”

“Jeanne-Marguerite is above, tending Pierre and Juliette and Eugenie,” the Comte responded curtly. “Greetings, gentlemen. You are welcome to my humble house; indeed, you are the first to arrive. Your servants may take your coursers to the stables and find accommodation there. Follow me.”

The Musketeers followed their hosts up the grand marble stairs, coming at last in clear sight of the family waiting above. Porthos stepped forward and embraced his young niece heartily. “Jeanne...Marguerite, my felicitations on your most joyous nuptials! Let me introduce my brave comrades – Messieurs Athos, D’Artagnan, and….”

“Aramis!” the demoiselle gasped, her cheeks blushing a bright red and then turning palest white. Without speaking another word, she turned and fled into a side wing of the chateau. Her mother, bemused, made quick apologies and hurried after her. The Comte glared, but said nothing, and made a quick excuse to leave, after asking a servant to show his brother-in-law and companions to their rooms.

Once the Musketeers had reached their quarters, in the older, more austere wing of the manor, D’Artagnan turned inquisitively to Aramis.

“The young lady appeared to know you, dear friend.”

“We have some passing acquaintance,” Aramis admitted.

“She seemed distressed,” Porthos noted. “What have you done to upset my niece?”

“My good Porthos, it would not be honourable to speak of such private matters,” Aramis countered.

Athos and D’Artagnan looked at each other in their customary silent communication, agreeing that pressing the point with their friend now would yield little.

“It has been a long day, my good friends, and I am tired,” Athos finally offered. “Let us rest now and enjoy the cool evening breezes here, and we may engage further with our good hosts in the morning.” He laid back upon his bed and closed his eyes. Like any experienced soldier, he was asleep within moments. Porthos and Aramis followed or at least appeared to follow his example. Though D’Artagnan’s mind was full of questions and curiosity, it seemed clear that nothing more could be ascertained tonight.

***

Meanwhile, Planchet, Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin, the four devoted manservants of the group of friends, had been grudgingly offered berths in the hayloft by the local servants of the Comte and Comtesse.

Mousqueton sniffed as they tried to settle down for sleep. “We are surrounded by bumpkins and riffraff. They would not know fine linen from cambric.”

Bazin fell to his knees and began reciting a long string of prayers that they would be safe from country hazards and animals, ranging from wild boars to the other servants. The others, as usual, largely ignored him.

Grimaud held up his hands over his ears, asking for quiet, but Planchet, D’Artagnan’s loyal man, largely ignored him, whispering eagerly, “One of them, the head groom, Villeferron, is quite friendly, and he mentioned a rare chance to gain some fortune tomorrow!”

Mousqueton looked up avidly. “It is true that our purses have not been heavy of late, nor have our masters gained many prizes beyond their maintenance from the king. What do you suggest, good Planchet?”

“There is a quaint local custom in these parts,” Planchet began, “that for the weddings of nobles, the local populace or servants weave together branches or string ribbons across the road between their home and the church on the morning of the wedding. When the wedding party tries to pass, the people stream out, and refuse to take away the branches until the party offers them coins or food. The servants here – led by that head manservant, Petrillard, who was so rude to us – plan to set up such a barrier tomorrow and get fat purses from the Comte and from the groom-to-be, the Chevalier de F___. “

Mousqueton grumbled, “Certainly, this would seem to be of great profit for Petrillard and his companions, but I do not see how it advantages us, as it does not appear likely that they would invite us to join them in their effort.”

Planchet brightened in response. “I do not propose that we join them, my good fellow, but rather that we set up our own barrier, closer to the chateau, that we might ambush the wedding party first and collect our due tax.”

Grimaud looked up at this, and mimed an elaborate set of gestures, raising his arms above his head, stacking imaginary blocks, and even drawing a sword. The others looked confused, until Bazin, having finished his prayers, spoke up.

“Grimaud notes that these local men must have little experience in how to properly bar passage. Whereas we, my good fellows, are Parisians! My father fought in the Day of the Barricades!”

Mousqueton smiled with glee. “Indeed, I am most certain that we can construct a barricade that will require a quite stupendous toll to pass, far greater than any country thorn-branches of these peasants.”

Dreaming of rich purses and sweetmeats, the four servants finally fell asleep.

***

The next morning, the four Musketeers rose and went out into the garden, somewhat surprised by the disappearance of their servants and the lack of any assistance with their morning toilettes. Athos and D’Artagnan diligently engaged in fencing drills, while Porthos lounged in a garden chair, offering comment on technique. Meanwhile, Aramis claimed to be studying his breviary, but repeatedly looked from side to side with furtive glances, as if he expected a scene at any moment. Eventually, as the morning wore on and the day grew hotter, Athos claimed a need for a pause. D’Artagnan decided to go for a stroll by himself through the ornamental hedge maze, to cool down after the morning’s exertions.

As he wandered aimlessly through the hedges, occasionally encountering a fearsome topiary lion or bull, D’Artagnan heard the sound of soft sighs and sobs coming from the center of the maze. He carefully listened and followed the cries to a small gazebo, in which Jeanne-Marguerite was crumpled on a small bench, holding some letters in her hand.

“Mademoiselle, may I be at your service to assuage your sorrows? I know not why you weep on such a beauteous day, the very morning of your nuptials, but if I can assist, I would be honored forevermore,” D’Artagnan averred.

Jeanne-Marguerite looked up, brushing tears away from her swollen blue eyes. She stumbled a bit over her words as she gazed up at the earnest young Musketeer. “You are…the friend of my uncle and, and…Aramis?”

“Indeed, Mademoiselle, I have that privilege. Monsieur D’Artagnan at your service, of his Majesty’s Musketeers,” D’Artagnan replied, sweeping her an elegant bow and doffing his cap.

“How do you know Aramis?” she asked.

“We have fought together in many great adventures, and he has always stood bravely by my side,” D’Artagnan replied. “But, Mademoiselle, if I may ask, how do you know Aramis?”

Her cheeks colored deeply. “We…we met last spring, in Paris. But I had thought he was to join the priesthood by now.”

At that moment, a slender young man, dressed in an elegant scarlet outfit of the latest fashion, charged into the middle of the gazebo. As he saw D’Artagnan and Jeanne-Marguerite engaged in conversation, his eyes blazed and his hand went to his rapier.

“How dare you, sir!” he addressed D’Artagnan.

“How dare I what, good stranger?” D’Artagnan retorted, angered and confused.

“How dare you conduct yourself so familiarly with my betrothed, attempting once again to divert her affections from her intended mate?” the young man accused.

“Indeed sir, I take offense at your wild accusation. This virtuous demoiselle and I were engaged in polite and proper discourse, and you have besmirched my honour by suggesting that I might behave otherwise with a betrothed maiden – on the very morning of her wedding!” D’Artagnan declared.

“I, besmirched your honour? Indeed, good sir, it is not I who am the talk of the servants and the local townsfolk this morning! I am the Chevalier de F___, and I demand satisfaction from you!” the Chevalier answered.

“And you shall have it, sir, for your wild lies as well as your own wishes! When do you wish to meet?”

“I may not go with hands bloodied to church, sir, so directly after the dinner this evening? It is summer; we will still have good light,” the Chevalier offered.

“I shall be most gratified to meet you after dinner, monsieur.” D’Artagnan answered. At this moment, the two men both glanced around and realized to their surprise that Jeanne-Marguerite herself had vanished into the maze. A startled look on his face, the Chevalier turned abruptly and headed back towards the main wing of the chateau, while D’Artagnan went to find his comrades.

***

“My good friends, I have been engaged for some light play with my rapier this evening,” D’Artagnan mentioned casually to the others.

“What, a duel? With whom have you become so angered that you need to fence?” Athos asked in surprise.

“In truth, I hardly know,” answered D’Artagnan. “The Chevalier de F___ accused me of improper behavior with his intended, and well, after such an insult…”

Aramis looked up in shock. “The Chevalier accused you of improper behavior?”

“Indeed! I did wonder if, perhaps, he had the wrong Musketeer. But in any case, my honour was attacked, and I could not in good conscience avoid a chance to redeem myself,” D’Artagnan said.

“But D’Artagnan, are you saying that you propose to fight and surely kill – for well I know your skill with the blade – my niece’s groom?” Porthos interrupted. “You cannot! It will be a great embarrassment for my sister!”

“But my dear Porthos, what else may I do? He all but called me a shameless reprobate to my face!” D’Artagnan pointed out.

Athos considered the matter and offered his opinion. “You must indeed fight the duel; it would be more shameful to attempt to flee. Yet, still…nothing good will come of killing the man.”

“I cannot fight at less than my full strength,” D’Artagnan asserted.

“And certainly,” Aramis pointed out, “We have no desire to lose you to his blade either.”

And so, perplexed by their dilemma, the four Musketeers spent the afternoon pondering honorable ways to avoid the duel, but found none.

***

Eventually, the time came for the wedding party to set off from the chateau towards the local church where the ceremony itself would be held. The bride and groom were traveling first; he on an elegant destrier and she with her mother and sisters inside an open carriage. They were followed by their families, including Porthos, and then the other guests, including the other three Musketeers. Along the way, village children threw flowers and sang pretty hymns.

Quite shortly after they had set out from the chateau, the procession paused briefly. Aramis asked what was happening. D’Artagnan rode up ahead and quickly returned. “It is nothing – a garland of ribbons strung by some local children across the road, which the bride has offered sweets to have broken. Apparently, it is a custom in these parts.”

The procession resumed and then, a few minutes later, came to an abrupt halt. The Musketeers patiently waited on their steeds for some minutes, but this time the procession did not resume. After perhaps ten minutes, they heard angry shouts up ahead, and then Porthos galloped up to them.

“Gentlemen, the wedding party requires our assistance!” he announced,

“What, then, to deal with some begging children?” Aramis scoffed. “Indeed this Chevalier is not much of a warrior!”

Porthos’ face twitched slightly, and he merely said, “Come, see for yourselves.”

The four veered off into a side field, to bypass the procession filling the road, and galloped up to the bridal carriage. There they could see the cause of the delay. Another barrier had indeed been erected across the road. But this was no mere garland or woven branches. Large boulders had been dragged into the path, anchored by wooden benches from the nearby tavern, fronted by the very door of the same tavern, and covered with a plenitude of barrels. Sharp, pointed stakes poked out over the top of the structure, and a muddy ditch had been dug in front of it.

A voice rang out from behind the barricade. “Fifty golden livres for passage, gentlemen!”

“Fifty livres!” the Chevalier replied in shock. “This is incredible! Clear the road immediately!”

“On the contrary! It is the custom that you must pay the fee to cross barriers on the road to church on this, your wedding day,” another voice, all too unfortunately familiar to the Musketeers as that of Mousequeton, though sounding rather more inebriated than usual. “And our fee is fifty livres! We deserve at least that much for so much labor!”

The Chevalier, aided by the Comte, continued to argue back and forth with the barricaders, while, in the carriage, the discreet giggles of the bride and her sisters could increasingly be heard. Athos assessed the situation, having already realized the nature of the defenders, and turned to his comrades.

“My friends! Onward and upward?” he asked civilly.

“Onward and upward indeed,” answered D’Artagnan.

And with no more discussion than that needed, they split into two pairs and galloped from each side of the road directly towards the barricade. They spurred their horses through the muddy ditch – Aramis’ mare incidentally splashing the Chevalier’s destrier – up the boulders and jumped over the wooden stakes. Once on the other side, each Musketeer leaned down and grabbed his own manservant by the back of their doublet, dragging him up onto the horse and then depositing him ignominiously in a cowpatch some distance away. Athos, having administered a strong glare to Grimaud, wheeled his horse and returned to the wedding party, who were gazing in amazement at the trampled barricade.

“The way, mesdames et messieurs, is clear,” he quietly stated.

Applause broke out from the carriage, and Jeanne-Marguerite quickly and skillfully tossed him a heavy purse. “My thanks, good Musketeer! May you serve our King as well as you have served my betrothed and myself today!”

“We strive to, mademoiselle,” D’Artagnan said, bowing from his horse.

The rest of the trip was, thankfully, without significant incident; the Musketeers rode ahead of the wedding party, rapiers drawn, and the remaining “toll-collectors” preemptively dismantled their own barriers after looking at the fierce glares of the soldiers. The service itself was peaceful and lovely; Jeanne-Marguerite appeared determined to prove to her betrothed the veracity of her affections for him, given the intensity and duration of the nuptial kiss.

***

The meal afterwards was grand and filling enough even for Porthos, though D’Artagnan and Athos barely touched their food, concerned with the events to follow. Eventually, the last course, a spun sugar confection of intertwined hearts and summer flowers, was served. D’Artagnan embraced his comrades and strode out with them to the south courtyard, which had been arranged for the duel.

They did not wait long for the Chevalier de F_ and his brother to join them.

“I am most sorry now to have to engage in this combat,” the Chevalier admitted as he strode up to the Musketeers. “You saved me a great deal of embarrassment – and not an inconsiderable number of livres – during the procession today.”

“Thank you,” D’Artagnan answered, “but we could have done no less out of simple hospitality and to honor our hosts. And there is still a point of honor to be settled.”

“Indeed there is,” the Chevalier said, drawing his rapier, “though my bride has assured me there was nothing objectionable in your behavior.”

Slowly and reluctantly, the two fighters began circling each other, rapiers drawn. The Chevalier was no mean swordsman, and his rapier darted in to tear a hole in D’Artagnan’s tabard momentarily. Still, D’Artagnan was of no little natural skill and had trained with the best warriors in France. To the onlookers it seemed clear that the question was not if but when he would strike a deadly blow.

At that moment, the courtyard erupted with a fantastical noise of clanging pans and loudly blaring horns, as the other guests and all the servants – including the Musketeers’ own, burst upon the scene and lifted the groom bodily up onto their shoulders. Another group of maids could be seen carrying the laughing and shrieking bride up the stairs.

“Charivari!” the crowd cried.

“But wait!” the Chevalier vainly shouted. “I am engaged in a matter of honor! You must not interrupt us!”

“There are better uses for your sword,” one of his friends called down, and ribald jokes were bandied back and forth as the Chevalier was carried up the stairs to his wife’s bedroom.

D’Artagnan, standing alone and perplexed as his opponent deserted him, caught a last glimpse of the bride as her party disappeared up the stairs, amidst singing and clanging. She caught his eye, glanced briefly over at Aramis with what might have been regret, and then gave D’Artagnan one slow, amused wink. Then she was gone.

Porthos clapped a large hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Put your rapier down, my friend. Let us go back to the dining hall. There is still much food, and even better wine.”

***

The next morning, when he arose late after a night of carousing, D’Artagnan felt honour-bound to seek out the Chevalier and attempt to resume his duel. To his relief, however, he discovered that the married couple had left at dawn for their wedding trip to the south of France.

“Don’t concern yourself, my dear,” the Comtesse said to him as the Musketeers made their farewells. “You have certainly made our little country weekend more lively. I suspect, though, that we still seem dull to you compared to the wonders of Paris.”

“Madame, let me assure you that your home has been, this weekend, both far more pleasant and far more exciting than Paris itself.”

D’Artagnan wheeled his horse, bowing to the Comte and Comtesse, and joined his friends. They galloped down the long processional route, over the remains of the barricade, through the hunting forests and over the picturesque streams.

“To Paris?” Aramis asked, a sigh in his voice.

“Let us take the northern road instead, my friends,” Athos suggested. “To adventure!”

“To adventure!” the other three musketeers echoed, and rode off into the horizon.

 

 

 

 


End file.
